Powell and Pressburger’s classic film The Red Shoes though at first glance seems to be a run-of-the-mill plot from a melodrama (or a so-called “Can’t Handle The Truth” Thursday afternoon special on Lifetime), but it offers so much more. Aside from the obvious elegance and grace of Victoria (Vicki) Page (Jean Short); the brilliant score by Brian Easdale; and the technical brilliance of Powell and Pressburger’s cinematography, there is an overall conflict that extends further the aesthetic “death-match” between the cinema and the performing arts. This tragic conflict, in the fullest sense of the term, can be fully explained, but most of all, appreciated, through good old Friedrich (Freddie) Nietzsche’s theory of tragedy, that is, the conflict between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The ultimate question is, of course, So what? For one thing, if all the critical theory holds true, then The Red Shoes is as well put together as any novel or any “heady” movie like Inception, Donnie Darko, The Matrix, etc. And, so it goes, I will prove the unthinkable: The Red Shoes, a story about a woman with a dream to be a dancer is much more “heady” than Inception…

The overall plot of The Red Shoes is about Victoria Page’s rise as a ballet dancer from relative obscurity to fame of astronomical proportions by the help of her Russian impresario, Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook). Not much is talked about Lermontov’s background, but one can safely assume that he was once a great dancer, and now finds pleasure and financial success in directing ballets and talent. There are a whole slew of ballet-folk that adds color to the film ranging from set designers to prima donna ballerinas, etc. But among them, the main person of interest is a young composer (and Vicki’s future husband) named Julian Craster (Marius Goring), who later falls in love with Vicki, and sets the dramatic wheels in motion for its tragic collision. The conflict of desires is, of course, the love of her husband and her love to dance. Narrative-wise, Vicki seems to be entire devoted to dance. There’s a short, terse dialogue between Lermontov and Vicki that cements her place as a potential Dionysian figure:

Lermontov (spoken with the German “W”): What do you want from life? To live?

Vicki: To dance.

The subjects of Vicki’s desires are represented via Lermontov and Craster to the theory of tragedy I mentioned earlier. Lermontov and Craster are exact stand-ins for Nietzsche’s notion of the Dionysian and the Apollonian. Nietzsche writes:

That the continuing development of art is tied to the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: just as procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, which are engaged in a continual struggle interrupted only by temporary periods of reconciliation…the Apollonian art of the sculptor and the imageless Dionysian art of music: these…drives run in parallel with one another…continually stimulating each other to ever new and more powerful births…only apparently bridged by the shared name of “art.” (The Birth of Tragedy…)

In other words, the Apollonian arts/artist is completely embodied in Craster. He knows who he is, and what music he creates: Craster focuses on his compositions, his creative voice and individuality. He does not lose himself in the grandeur of art, but practices discipline both as an artist and as a person. Though music is supposed to be an inherent part of Dionysian art, I think Nietzsche, when he refers to music in general, is talking about the act of listening and experiencing music as opposed to its composition. It is akin to the club music that Snooki or “The Situation” from Jersey Shore fist pump to. The craft and skill to making the beats is more akin to sculpting than my Jersey Shore metaphor. And so, Craster is the embodiment of Apollonian art and sensibilities, which again, sets the wheels in motion for a collision, of which Nietzsche calls “attic tragedy.”

Lermontov is quite the opposite. The Dionysian sensibilities that he represents stem from intoxication, loss of identity, and sexual excess. To paraphrase Mr. B. Clinton, “I [Lermontov] did not have sexual relations with that woman [Vicki].” But, this is not to say that there wasn’t an intimacy between Lermontov and Vicki: The love, an all-consuming at that, of dance. There is a short scene in which Vicki mentions to Lermentov that her life’s purpose is to dance. Dance, as we know in our vulgar, uber-Dionysian times (just visit any nightclub or watch an episode of Jersey Shore) seems to be a stand-in, or a kind of foreplay, for sex and joviality. The ballet scenes, regardless it is Les Sylphe or Petrushka or The Red Shoes, all replicate these Dionysian ideals. This is her world, but of course with the cosmic meeting between the three, Lermontov, Craster, and Vicki, which connects the Dionysian to the Apollonian. The ambivalence is there, and has been territory writers and philosophers called home. (Sophocles’ Antigone and Romeo and Juliet are the classic example, and so is Fatal Attraction. Take your pick.) This is where the true tragedy comes out.

And so, faced between the two aesthetic forces, Vicki is forced to make a decision. Once Craster and Vicki become married, it seems that Vicki acquiesces to his career and wishes, which are the embodiment of Apollonian ways. But Vicki, pledging her allegiance to the cause of dance, tries to mediate between her two aesthetic lives each in the name of “art” as Nietzsche mentions; however at odds Craster and Lermontov are with each other. These drives make Vicki insane during the climactic final scene (which I won’t spoil here, but if you’ve read, or are going to read, James Joyce’s short story “A Painful Case” you’ll get the idea) where she takes her own life.

All the subtleties which play off of Nietzsche’s theory are short, but plentiful. Lermontov, when he is about to fire Craster, says about Vicki’s performance, “Because neither her mind or her heart were in her work. She was dreaming. And dreaming is a luxury I never permitted in my company.” This dialogue is perfectly Nietzschean in design, and further supports his position as anti-Apollonian and pro-Dionysian. These moments, though seemingly subtle in design, add to the complexity of the film. And so, good reader who have travelled this far, watch the movie and think about the conflict, it’ll be good for you.

This movie is not about the struggle of Anglican nuns who settle in a remote area of the Himalayas. Black Narcissus is about sex. The film’s plot treads on a thin wire: A group of nuns lead by Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) inhabit a former “guesthouse,” intended to house an old general’s concubines, to establish a nunnery, school, and pharmacy. However, sexual tensions arises when Mr. Dean (David Farrar), who is the source of attraction for many of the nuns especially the troublemaker, Sister Ruth (Kathleen Ryan). There are a number of implied sexual, or at the very least, lustful relationships between each character. Though, this Lifetime-esque plot device has an effective problem which undercurrents the entire film, that is, colonization. Mr. Dean –who does act like a dean or a principal, of sorts– makes wry remarks about the nuns’ attempt to “civilize” the “happy native.” The racial stereotypes are many, and comparable to that of in Birth of a Nation. But why watch this film?

In a refined, British way, this film is similar (in all honesty) to American Pie or Porky’s. These films are all structured in which the main character(s) seek(s) for sexual fulfillment. The reasoning behind this, of course, is the idea that sex creates an “oneness” between two people. (You can basically insert any romantic cliché here). But, of course, the path to “oneness” is difficult, and if not, impossible. The French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan once posited, “There is no sexual relationship.” And, this is exactly what the Anglican nuns in Black Narcissus have to endure: No sexual relationship, in any respect.

The cinematography, albeit all shot on a sound-stage, elucidates this idea through the juxtaposition of the settings. At the top of town of Mopu is the convent –keep in mind it is a former brothel (with a client of one…)—which is seen as the literal version of an “ivory tower” or in Freudian terms, “phallus.” The life and vegetation of the valley below, which stands for life, procreation, sex, etc., is where pleasure rests. (Read Samuel Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”) Whereas, as in any ivory tower, the substitution of pleasure to utility (or usefulness) leads to a bad case of sublimation, sterility, and jungle fever, as it were. Mr. Dean (who wears Daisy Dukes…) becomes the only sex object around for the nuns, and frankly, for mildly prejudiced reasons. Sister Ruth becomes enamored by Mr. Dean, one could argue, just because he was the only white male around: The young quasi-effeminate Young General (Sabu) is only attracted to young non-white females. But, oddly enough, Mr. Dean seems to have his pick of women in the town of Mopu. One can infer from his interactions with the young peasant girl, Kanchi, that Mr. Dean is “not that innocent” as B. Spears would say; so almost everyone is guilty for being tempted towards engaging in sex, or at the very least, entertaining the thought.

Staunch Sister Clodaugh herself feels guilty for reminiscing on living the good life of material possessions and sexual love. This is where the marriage between psychoanalysis and filmmaking meet into one sophisticated sandwich. The scene in which this phenomenon readily shows is when Sister Clodaugh is praying the chapel at Mopu. Wind is blowing through the sterile, cold nunnery. While this happens, Sister Clodaugh looks up at the window and notices some vegetation growing and penetrating the window-space like wild grass on a pavement. Then, the next scene is a flashback to Sister Clodaugh’s relationship days in Ireland. And so, the vegetation as I mentioned earlier represent growth for a person, intellectually, and physically. The Mother Superior, who is Sister Clodaugh, does not play the same frigid, stereotypical nun: We see her former decadence. But, unlike Sister Ruth, she can generally control herself. Sister Ruth on the other hand…

Sister Ruth is one of the more interesting characters in the film because she is almost depicted as a “real,” in the sense of the everyday, person. One must assume she chose to become a nun for a reason, at least, at first. But she realizes that physical, secular love for her is what gives her life balance and meaning. In a naïve way, she does pursue that physical, secular love, but literally (and literarily), is unable to handle the pressures of students and sexual longing. The scene in which Sister Ruth is gazing upon Mr. Dean through her classroom’s window is emblematic of this naïve sexual longing. The child teaching the village children how to speak English, specifically, the names of weapons (i.e., gun, cannon, etc.), makes Sister Ruth’s longing both comical and a bit sad.

The most iconic scene is where Sisters Clodaugh and Ruth are sitting next to each other, basically testing each other’s religious piety harking back to Jesus’ prayer vigil in the garden, with a twist: Sister Ruth has shed her white habit for a form-fitting red dress, a sign of her newly-found sexuality. But even more so, is when Sister Ruth puts on her red lipstick, slowly. This symbolically sexual gesture is the final nail, as it were, to the religious piety that Sister Clodaugh subscribes to. Watching this scene in Technicolor with her bright red lips, even without knowledge of Sister Ruth’s failed midnight rendezvous with Mr. Dean, can give one a shock.

My only problem is that Sister Ruth’s character is terribly one-sided: A repressed nun who flowers into a sex vixen. There is a bit of the deus ex machina at play throughout the entire film, but it’s only appropriate, I think.

And so, to watch this film and enjoy it thoroughly takes a bit of a dirty mind to enjoy. The cinematography, setting, and music you can see nods to from an Indiana Jones film to the latest Wes Anderson offering. Don’t watch the movie expecting gratuitous sex, or even a tittle of titillation. Rather, watch it filling in the blanks of every character, and the striking landscapes that Technicolor provides. Then watch American Pie or Porky’s, and you’ll see what I mean.

It’s difficult to describe this latest creation from the French master filmmaker Alain Resnais (Hiroshima Mon Amour, Last Year at Marienbad). Similar to Godard’s Pierrot le Fou, there are many twists and turns with the main characters, Georges Palet (Andre Dussollier) and Marguerite Muir (Sabine Azema), that it is hard to define the film in any sort of cinematic nomenclature. I’d prefer to take the Germanic (or Joycean) route, if you prefer (though as a reader you have no choice) to suggest that Resnais’ Wild Grass is a thrillerromancecomedydrama. Why are these genres mixed together in one big French onion soup? Because this film is Resnais gift (or baby) to the medium of cinema. But you may ask your reviewer, “I watched this movie and the ending was crap.” And I would say to you, “Well, you have to look at the film for its visual aesthetics; the 80 years of cinematic craftsmanship Resnais accrued like a bottle of Dom Perignon; the lighting which gives the soft-focused and dream-like visuals; and lastly, the acting of both Dussollier and Azema.

The beginning frames of Wild Grass are quite literal shots of “wild grass” coming through the former rigidity and uniformity of an outdoor black pavement. It is tough not to notice the metaphor Resnais is trying to convey, and to a certain degree, foreshadow an unconventional story of love. But what is this metaphor? Is it bland movies? Is the blacktop a cinematic cancer of bad movies or, at least, unimaginative movies? The French have a history of romantic films not ending with a Hollywood ending, so what is Resnais trying to say?

The narrative thrust of the film centers around a missing wallet owned by Marguerite, an older redheaded woman whose hair spent too much in a.) The Eighties or b.) At the Cabbage Patch factory. Again, Resnais plays up this theme of being “wild,” unbridled, and free. Marguerite’s penchant for aviation adds fuel to Georges’ passion for his newfound inamorata. Oddly enough, George is married to a much younger woman, Suzanne Palet (Anne Consigny), and is in a loveless marriage (surprise, surprise). Being unable to tickle her man’s keys, (you’ll get this pun if you watch the film) she passively goes along with her husbands philandering. He even lays a finger or two on Marguerite’s dental practice partner, Josepha (Emmanuelle Devos), in the process.

Though this Palet guy seems like quite the ladies’ man, he’s not someone you’d like to have a coffee with. Throughout the film it is hinted at his criminal background, God knows what. He stalks and practically hunts down his beloved. In true style, the tables are turned when Marguerite does the same thing. Scenes with Mathieu Amalric (Quantum of Solace) as the town policeman really liven up the somewhat Fatal Attraction meets Basic Instinct aesthetic the film seems to hover above. Resnais, being the master craftsman that he is, does not indulge the timeworn erotic thriller genre. He, instead, gestures towards it.

The most moving scene (though tinged with a refreshing brutish awkwardness from Palet) was when Marguerite drives from her apartment across town into the Montmartre area of Paris in order to stalk Georges. The movie theatre, aglow in red neon lights that read “Le Cinema,” really induce a mental hallucinogenic in your brain. A jazz saxophone is heard in the background adding to the mystery of the evening. But more importantly, the mystery of cinema as one sees the red signs and the vintage movie posters advertising the film George watches. These dreamy sequences abound especially when Georges and Marguerite fantasize about each other as well as their thoughts. The split screen with the character driving and his/her own thoughts manifested next to them is genius. Also, it is a nice alternative compared to the soliloquies that we’ve heard again, again, and again.

So what can we say about Wild Grass? It is a visually stunning ride with fairly interesting lead

characters. The supporting characters add a color and vivacity to the otherwise weird and, perhaps, horribly unhealthy relationship between Marguerite and Georges. (The scene with Georges being interrogated by Amalric is priceless). My advice is to watch the film and transport to a world slightly off, and let the magic of cinema slowly take you up the hill and then down into the crazy, jarring, off-putting, but incredibly charming movie that Wild Grass is.

The best way to describe Luca Guadagnino’s and Tilda Swinton’s cinematic endeavor is that of a dinner at five-star Michelin awarded restaurant in Italy. The plot, like the perfect pasta, is simple: An affluent Russian émigré, Emma Recchi (Tilda Swinton) has an affair with Antonio, a chef and good friend to Edo, Emma’s son. Dramatic entanglement is pervasive –which some critics feel as “melodramatic”– with homoerotic tensions (and some oedipal issues) between Edo and Antonio, and for good measure, Edo’s sister, Elisabetta (Betta) Recchi has a romance with her female yoga instructor.

Australian stuntman turned director, Nash Edgerton, treats his characters with the mischievous control of a malevolent puppet master. He likes to make his audiences uncomfortable. His new film, The Square, stars David Roberts as Raymond Yale, the pawn in Edgerton’s hands, whose life reaches a pit of such calculated loss and despair, that it is an added tragedy for the story to close without relieving Yale through death. This slight is the protagonist’s final penalty for the actions initiated by his younger mistress, Carla Smith (Claire Van der Bloom), whose simple plan of robbing ill-gotten money from her husband, and running, is botched in the lovers’ criminally-amateur hands. The pacing of the story is a slow unraveling of grave consequences– reminiscent of other dark films, like In The Bedroom– pitching the wills of its characters against the impervious tenacity of a larger fate. The feeling of dread builds, crescendos, and ends with an air of theatric and hopeless indeterminability. Nothing is finally resolved; it is merely ended. Depending on your empathetic receptors, you may feel that justice has been wrought; or, you might finish on an existential path of concern over the lack of control our lives can hold.

Shutter Island has the recipe for success. It has a legendary director at the helm Martin Scorsese (Goodfellas, The Departed) and it stars his current go-to guy Leonardo DiCaprio, who might be giving his best performance to date. If it’s not Leo’s best, it’s definitely his most complex. Based on Dennis Lehane’s (Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone) novel of the same name, Marty and Leo take us on another cinematic ride. With all those ingredients, it should be a masterpiece right?

Shutter Island is an excellent film, let me say that up front. It is well acted and well directed, but times it doesn’t feel like Leonardo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese; it felt like it could easily be Jimmy Stewart and Alfred Hitchcock. The way it’s shot is reminiscent of the 1950′s from the music to the atmosphere. But there are a lot of scenes that seem to over stay their welcome. Whether they’re in a cave or talking to a prisoner, they just stay long enough for your mind to wander. It’s not a scary film even though scary and disturbing things happen throughout. Somehow Scorsese strings it all together to make a fine piece of work.

However, there is something wrong with Shutter Island but I can’t put my finger on it. At times I think it’s pacing, but the pace of the film adds to the mental aspect, and I don’t think the film would be so successful if it were any shorter. Every time I think of something wrong with the movie, I find something to prove me wrong.

The film is set in 1954 in which federal marshals Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) are sent to Ashecliffe mental hospital on Shutter Island to investigate the disappearance of a patient. Along the way, we see into Teddy’s past concerning his wife and his duty during World War II (which makes think, “Where’s that WWII picture at Marty?”). Ben Kingsley plays Dr. Cawley, that traditional character who feeds the main character and audience the information. The ending is a predictable mind boggler but after much thought and debate, it does hold up and make sense as a great thriller.

Shutter Island is a movie that you need to soak in. It has an ending you’ll be talking about for a while after, and hopefully discovering as you do. It’s not as good as The Departed, my personal Scorsese favorite, but it’s definitely a picture you shouldn’t miss; especially with all the crap that is usually shoveled into January and February.

By J. Edwards

An old man gingerly walks towards the frame as the trees stand alone. Then, the roots and leaves mirrored by an empty home that has spawned such a brooding and yet  eerily prophetic feeling. A voice tells us of demons, in words so soft and pure. And all the while the wind is silent and bids farewell. A structure mired in peaceful contentedness is described that does not suit the tyrant of legend who now tells such tales. The heated little upstart that is now so far removed from the shell that remains. He epitomizes the very concepts that brought him the fame he now shies away from and, all the while, the waves continue to crash on the island that he himself constructed so long ago. Now, come those who long to remember.

With Bergman Island, Marie Nyrerod puts a face to a Bergman, far removed from the man known worldwide as one of the premiere auteurs whose career spanned over six decades. A painful image of the master in a rare moment of peace before the final wave crashes upon the very same island that now floats in its own mythical status. Even with it’s obvious admiration for Bergman, Nyreod’s homage is not without its faults. To put Ingmar Bergman upon a pedestal is not a difficult task for the many who have come to respect and admire his lifetime of creativity. Though to treat his life and career as flawless seems to be the premiere stumbling block of those who attempt to shed light upon him.
As a documentarian, Nyrerod opts to allow the aging Bergman to wander amongst his own thoughts, simultaneously allowing herself to be freed from the bonds of documentary filmmaking through his own ever winding tales. Her failure as a filmmaker is overshadowed by the sheer force of the memories being relived. There are few questions asked of any weight, and yet answers are given that transcend the desired result. There is no cinematography to speak of, and yet the unmistakable beauty of the island shines through with the picture perfect clarity allowed to modern day film. It is the island as we’ve seen it so many times before, and yet the island as we always knew it could be so we forget that a camera is present. Perhaps, that is the sign of a perfect cinematographic style, to separate the spectator from the scene. And yet, sadly, the more likely scenario is that, to many, a beautiful canvas needs no paint. Bergman never believed that.

The sunlight gleams from the trees and from the shaking hands of a man describing his youth. Age is apparent in both, and yet neither are brought into focus. The lack of direction that should be so unmistakably stark is dwarfed by the sheer power emanating from the focus of the frame. The questions are simplistic in the most juvenile way. The answers stray into a life of pain and anguish, hope, failure, desire, success, loss, and peace. They drag on and rescue those who ask from the burden of asking more.
Nyrerod becomes little more then a spectator in her own film, serving no purpose other then to allow Bergman a target for his wildly fantastical tales. Bergman, as he has always done, once again controls his entire surroundings and absentmindedly pays little heed to the groveling crowds enveloping him. He is ever the director, regardless of which side of the camera he occupies. While it would be easy to regard this as a lack of directorial control, Bergman’s frailty and ever active imagination cause it to take on an almost innocent appeal. He is clearly pleased to have a rare visitor at his burrow on Faro, as well as the chance to live once again in the moments so long ago on the very spot he now occupies. His tales so enrapture the viewer that all sins of the filmmaker are instantly forgotten. At one point in their conversation Bergman mutters “even when the film is complete, there is nobody i can show it to that will give me their honest opinion and say what they think. the rest is silence…”. A statement that is stunningly accurate for the document under scrutiny as well. It is as if Bergman can never escape the reality that he himself has created over so many years. He has become his characters and his stories, his life is now imitating art just as his art imitated his life. His age and weakness brings to mind the words of Antonius Block whilst staring into the face of death itself: “My flesh is afraid, but i am not.” and just like in the Seventh Seal, our hero is granted a moment of respite. A last glimpse of the waves of his quiet home, a last chance to look back through the years of success and pain, all the way to where it began so long ago with a single magic lantern.